


oh captain (my captain)

by asteropes



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression CW, Destroy Ending, F/M, POV Outsider, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Mass Effect 3, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Solana Vakarian is a badass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 08:59:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1260577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asteropes/pseuds/asteropes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solana Vakarian's been stuck in a floating hospital for eight months. Commander Shepard wakes up in the Citadel out of a three month coma. Garrus Vakarian... well, no-one's really sure what's happened to him.</p><p>And all Solana can do is leave drafts in her inbox and watch the holoscreens anxiously, waiting for some good news.</p>
            </blockquote>





	oh captain (my captain)

**Author's Note:**

> title from Walt Whitman's _O Captain! My Captain_
> 
> thank u so much to Abbie for proofreading!!! youre the best

 There isn’t the sound of reverberated gunfire in the medical facility when Shepard wakes up this time. There’s just the (rapidly increasing) beeping of a heart monitor; weak sunlight (and she can’t tell the angle of the sunlight from here to work out her location; where is she? is this a Reaper facility?) filtering through a hospital window. She breathes for a few long moments. Is she dead? Did they finally get her? Or is she resurrected yet again - a pawn for another terrorist group?

She laughs bitterly, questions draining her before she’s really awake, and it all hurts too much, so she continues, ignoring the spasms of her aching lungs. More than anything else, it tells her she’s alive.

The room is light, and cheery, and full of flowers and cards and a few pathetically deflating balloons - as though the one thing Commander Shepard wanted to see when she woke up was a bright monstrosity hoping her to ‘GET WELL SOON’.

Aspirations. Beyond surviving long enough to consider retirement, she apparently has them.

She sits up, and if she ignores the burning of her entire body, she can see through the window to her left. She stares for a few seconds, confusing making its way to clarity; someone’s blurred the outside world as to not scare her too much. To keep her docile, and quiet, and make her settle, and the worst thing is - well, that it’s working. Psychological warfare - finally successful after she’s fought in too many fucking wars. That probably warrants a laugh too.

She decides eventually she’s in a hospital. The gifts are from well wishers. There are no guns. She’s not going to pull out the drip from her arm because that hurts like a bitch and she’s not stupid. But she doesn’t relax, and she doesn’t lie down again.

The door to her right opens with a faint hiss, and that’s recognisable as somewhere in populated space, so she sits up further, air punched out of her lungs. It fucking hurts, but she’s alive, and she doesn’t know where her people are, and she doesn’t know what’s happened. She can’t give up yet. Garrus. Garrus and her crew. Her family, if a street-child and lone survivor can ever really understand such a collective concept.

They need her.

The door opens with a _woosh_. An asari, arms full of bandages, gasps - stares at her for a long moment, and turns and runs out the door.

She sits quietly for ten minutes, and then Shepard arms herself with a pair of medical scissors hastily grabbed from the bottom of a drawer, hands trembling, waiting for the worst.

If she’s been woken up to fight again, she may just have to give up.

* * *

* * *

* * *

“ _It’s been revealed today by doctors at Huerta Memorial Hospital that three months after the Reaper attack on Earth and the Citadel, Commander Shepard has awoken from her coma. The human Spectre was ultimately the saviour of occupied space, warning the Council of not only the Reaper threat, but of the possible consequence of not mobilising forces in time._ ” The asari newsreader on the holoscreen smiles attractively at her audience, clearing her throat before continuing. “ _Many have been concerned over Shepard’s extended absence - some even thinking she was missing in action - however twelve weeks later, the truth has come to light._ ”

Three months. It’s almost laughable, Solana thinks. Three months since the Citadel was almost destroyed - eight since she’s been holed up in this tiny salarian facility at the edge of occupied space with a shattered leg and dying mother - over a year since her brother disappeared. (The disappearing is normal. It's the not-coming-back that isn’t).

“ _Doctors say the Commander will be released from hospital ‘within weeks’. Neither Shepard or the remainder of the Alliance have any statements to make. Our Alliance correspondent, Amita Quasid, has the full story._ ”

But Shepard’s alive (and Solana brutally ignores the relief rushing through her chest; the involuntary hum her subharmonics emit that practically shout _hope and relief_ ), because if that’s not a good sign, nothing is. Her father’s alive, too - she has confirmation of that in the interviews on the holoscreens that had spluttered back into life. Still - he's just trapped halfway across a damned galaxy from her - but Solana knows, really, out of anyone in this universe, that if Garrus is alive, Shepard will be the one to find him. It won’t be their father.  And with the way Garrus spoke about the Commander - well, she’d better, else she’ll have an angry Vakarian to answer to. Actually, Solana decides, make that two angry Vakarians.

The door to her room opens and in bustles a busy looking salarian nurse. This had been her mother’s room, before her mother had died, but the nurses look after her despite the lack of money left on their account, chattering away and talking to her on those days it hurts to exist.

Even on the bad days, Solana’s far more calm than any salarian she’d ever met, but she doesn’t mind them. At first, she had allowed them in as a symbol of interspecies friendship because if Garrus could do it, then she could probably do it better. Then their fledgeling relationship had turned into the calming background noise of an orbital hospital with no other turians to speak of. Now, dare she admit it, it was dangerously close to friendship, and some active moment in a slowly stagnating life.

“It’s amazing that the news still keeps running,” the woman says vaguely in her direction, continuing with a brusque: “even after a war.” She straightens up; meets Solana’s gaze with a stern one of her own. “Things’ll return to normal, Miss Vakarian,” she states, radiating confidence and assurance.

Solana wonders how there can ever be another 'normal' ever again - but permits something close to a smile. “I hope so,” she replies, and just wonders what this brave new world will bring.

* * *

From: Solana  
To: Garrus  
Subject: be careful  
Sent: 13:08, June 22nd, 2187

_if you’re not alive i’m going to find you and bring you back and kill you again_

 

[Recipient Not Found. Message returned to sender.]

* * *

 She often joins the nurses in their stations - because most of the people who had been hospitalised here so very long ago are either healed, or dead. There are so few salarian women in the galaxy, and these are the ones who aren’t ready for motherhood yet, but are left to count and burn the dead. She isn't sure which is a worse role.

Her mother is in that pile of ashes, and sometimes Solana can smell her cheap perfume in that hospital room, so she limps out with poorly fitting crutches, and staunchly refuses help and sets her mouth in a hard line and refuses to let herself cry, even when she thinks that she might be the last child of the deceased Ceto Vakarian left in this universe.

She sits with the nurses, and they nurse their cups of tea and talk while Solana listens and hopes some good news will come with the slowly returning sitcoms and holoshows and music channels. Life always comes back after war - even after the worst of odds - and it’s funny, and she isn’t really sure why.

* * *

 “ _The Alliance released a statement today, stating that the woman who has been named saviour of the galaxy, Commander Shepard, was the one who activated the beam that destroyed the Reapers - at great physical risk to herself. When asked, the Commander did not leave a repeatable comment, however Admiral Hackett explained in her lieu that the Commander ‘has put everything on the line, and appreciation and assistance should be our first priority.’ In other news…_ ”

* * *

“Your brother’s alive, you know,” Beledra states. For a salarian, she’s relatively calm - the exact opposite to her self-declared partner in crime, Paova. They’re the closest thing to a romantic relationship that salarians get - best friends who luxuriate in time with each other. Solana thinks it’s - well, it’s cute.

“Really?” she asks, subharmonics illustrating deep seated sarcasm. “How do you know that?”

“Don’t you give me that tone, young lady,” Paova snaps. In intergalactic years she’s younger than Solana, but in salarian years, she’s grandmotherly at the old age of 36. The thought that Solana will have to keep moving long after she’s gone is a painful one. “When am I wrong?”

Before Solana can respond, Beledra interrupts. “She’s never wrong,” she adds seriously, rolling her eyes in the most human move Solana’s ever seen a salarian pull. “Sol - you have to believe he’s alive until you haven’t got any more evidence. Don’t you know scientific theory, you petty soldier?” She’s offered a teasing smile, and Solana sighs dramatically.

“Of course not,” she agrees smoothly. “What was it Paova said on the first day I arrived? Ah, yes - ‘not another one of-”

“‘You warmongering featherless birds’. Yes, yes - I know.” And Paova’s reciting it like she’s heard it a thousand times before (which, in all likeliness, she has), but there’s amusement in her tone, and the pressure on Solana’s chest alleviates a little.

* * *

The Commander’s angry red hair is weakly fluttering in the artificial Citadel breeze as she talks. There’s deep, ugly scarring on her face (on the same side to Garrus, Solana notes bitterly), and she’s in full N7 armour like a _silér_ hiding in its shell. Despite the pain she must be in, her expression is no-nonsense, and her tone is sharp. “ _My priority is getting my people back,_ ” she snaps to the journalists. There is the sharp click of a camera in the background and her face is illuminated by light, emphasising the scarring - across what Garrus had explained to be eyebrows; curving sharply, then a deep canyon down her cheek; the other end raising up, eventually disappearing into her hairline. It looks like a clan mark. Perhaps, to Shepard, it is. “ _I will help in restoring the Citadel as best I can, and the Alliance needs all the assistance it can get, but it is my crew who have kept all of us alive through all of this. They have been taken off the list of dead because they are not dead_.”

Solana hears the nurses talking about it later that day, and knows that whatever Shepard says, goes. (That’s also the first time she realises there might not be any more _silér_ left in the whole entire universe, and there might not be a Palaven, either.)

(It gives her more nightmares than she’ll admit to.)

* * *

 The first outside contact they get is from a group of rag-tag turians mingled with krogan, and Solana would cry if she had tear ducts. The soft harmonies of subharmonics; turian body language; carefully selected words, not mindless chatter. They’re former soldiers, the lot of them (and isn’t every turian a former soldier, really?), but the krogan are there despite long-running interspecies hostility, because didn’t she hear? Shepard helped cure the genophage. (She wishes she was surprised.)

And there’s a turian doctor onboard, who rebreaks the bone and sorts out her leg with a properly sized splint as turian bones are notoriously hard to heal properly. The salarians had been good, no doubt - but they were specialists in genetic diseases, not broken limbs.

Everyone onboard is also given working omnitools - the old ones had blown out with the destruction of the Reapers - and these are the new ones, flashy and expensive, and Solana has over 20,000 messages in her inbox but she’s alive, so she allows herself to smile so much her mandibles ache.

The armada are coming in, the soldiers reassure as they depart - coming to rescue them, and they warn that it may take months, but the orbiting hospital has been flagged up for a rescue party asap. Even if it takes forever, they leave enough supplies to last any dextro-protein eater years, and for the first time Solana can remember, she has some semblance of action lighting up her nerve endings in lightning and incandescent flashes.

* * *

It’s a different newsreader this time, and Solana is groggy, closing her eyes to settle in bed for a little while longer. She doesn’t think she’s quite ready to move yet.

“ _Commander Shepard,_ ” the human man states, “ _has begun a petition to entirely get rid of the Council. This naturally has been responded to with outrage, many petitioning in response for her to be decommissioned as a, Council Spectre_.”

There is a beat of silence and then Solana sits up, sheets tangling in her faceplates. She untangles as she listens, eyes narrowed at the holoscreen accusingly. It’s Shepard onscreen - when isn’t it Shepard? - and her scars are healing, and her eyes are greener than ever. “ _The Council did sweet fuc- uh -- nothing after we destroyed the Collector base. It was only after the threat of their deaths were proposed that they began to mobilise forces for the war. Thus, I propose a new Council - closer to a government - which includes races such as the krogan, elcor and batarian_.” She pauses, her gaze disappearing somewhere far away, and then returns with twice the intensity. “ _People wouldn’t have died if they had gotten their asses in gear. The Normandy - my friends - are out there and missing and if you think that is acceptable then you are part of the problem_.” There is a threat laced in that tone, and Solana smiles at it.

She thinks she likes Shepard. She’s not sure when that happened.

* * *

From: Captain Vakarian  
To: Solana Vakarian  
Subject: Continued Survival  
Sent: August 31st, 5:04 local time, 2187

_Solana-_

_I’m alive, if that’s of any happiness to you. I should hope it is, because when I found out you were okay - well, let’s just say that C-Sec won’t be forgetting how their favourite officer responded for a long time._

_I'm Captain of C-Sec, now - that’s why I’m not getting to you sooner, my daughter. There is a cleanup to do, and Garrus. We don’t know where he is, Solana - but I think you should know that by now. Shepard contacted me; she’s on the case. If anyone can sniff out your brother, it’s her._

_I’m afraid I can’t get you out of there yet. You’re safe there, and you’re healing, and I need you to do both of those things. I can’t lose you after losing your brother and your mother in such a short timeframe. It’s selfish, but it’s true._

_Please use this comm line to respond. It is secure._

_Your father_.

* * *

“When do you think we’re going to get out of here?” Beledra asks. It's been six weeks since the last cruiser even came close to the hospital. She looks tired - they’re all tired - and the hope they had has been sucked out of them like an open airlock into space.

“I don’t know,” Solana responds, and rubs her fists over her closed eyes in a decidedly human gesture. “I’m going crazy.”

“You’ll turn into a salarian too,” Beledra jokes, “and you’d be all the better for it.”

Solana smiles, and doesn’t disagree.

* * *

[Draft]

From: Solana Vakarian  
To: The Father  
Subject: You Asshole  
Last edited: 23:45, September 3rd, 2187

_You have no right to keep me here! Just because you’re too scared that you’re going to lose someone else gives you no right to keep me here in the middle of fucking nowhere I hate you I hate you I can’t believe you let mom di_

* * *

The shuttle to the turian ship is dangerously overcrowded, full of jostling salarians and the few asari patients that could be coaxed onboard. The rest have been left up there, and a message sent to the asari government. For a species who were practically saved, they’re awfully...

Solana leaves that thought where it is. There’s no time for xenophobia; not anymore.

Instead, she stares out the window at the fading speck of white on the horizon, the massive planet that she had stared at for so out of ship windows slowly shrinking as she gets further and further away. The speck of white that is a floating hospital for rare diseases has entirely disappeared now, absorbed into the mass of the planet she never bothered learning the name of, and that is fading too - disappearing into the black.

Almost in direct contrast to the quiet, pensive hospital-ship, the turian cruiser she stumbles into is full of soldiers on active duty - many of them worn and tired and exhausted but bright. Hopeful. She is saluted a lot - some know who she is (or, more truthfully, who Garrus is), and she hobbles through on her crutches, supported by salarians on each elbow. She has no time for pride. She won’t need the crutches soon - they’re more a safety net than anything else, now, and physiotherapy is going well.

Her room is tiny and she’s sharing it with a platoon of female soldiers who are all too happy to talk about how excited they are to see their life-partners, and how they hope they’re going to be home soon. And it’s none of the excited rabble, or quick talking she’s used to - they’re calm, and quiet, and rational, and their subvocals say more than anything single-faceted voice ever could.

Solana surprises even herself by deciding to seek out her salarian nurses.

* * *

From: Solana  
To: Garrus  
Subject: be careful  
Sent: 19:22, October 9th, 2187

_you’re not the only bad turian in our family. i’m not disobeying the hierarchy - i’m just choosing not to participate._

_i think i understand your choices now but seriously you’d better be alive or else._

[Recipient Not Found. Message returned to sender.]

* * *

The mess is full to the brink, soldiers sat on benches; perched on tables; huddled, murmuring in the corners of the room. Unusually, the salarian nurses have even quietened down, watching the holoscreen projected onto the wall above them with the sort of focus usually dedicated to major surgery and soap operas.

The camera is grainy, and there is a name and a little ownership icon to the bottom right of the video - it’s been obviously been filmed by a member of the public on an older omnitool. The camera is shaking a bit, and there is white noise in the background, but the woman in shot is Shepard - no doubt about that - and she’s angry. Dangerous. A Spectre.

The camera pans out with an audible whir and, and entering frame, far right - crowds surrounding her. It looks like one of the docking bays in the Citadel, and Solana’s not sure how she knows it, but she does - and there, far left, the person Shepard is staring dangerously at - it’s Solana’s father. Captain Vakarian is apparently alive and well. Solana hasn’t yet graced him with a reply.

“ _You_ ,” Shepard hisses, slamming one glove-clad finger into Captain Vakarian’s (C-Sec’s most famous officer if there ever was such a person) chest, “ _are not declaring Garrus as dead. I know turians don’t fucking have ‘missing in action’ as a denomination, but they do in the Alliance, and my ship is an_ **Alliance** _ship_.” Her slowly healing face contorts into rage and misery, and Solana can feel almost every eye in the mess on her, but her eyes are glued to the screen. They all know who Solana is. She was never kidding anyone.

“ _I am not allowing you to make a decision, Captain_ ,” Shepard drawls in universally understood contempt, and there is bitterness underlying every word. (Garrus had denied every romantic allegation - every one under the Citadel - but… Shepard’s expression is saying something else. Garrus could lie, after all.) “ _I’m a Spectre of the Council. Maybe the Council won’t be around for much longer, and maybe you were too controlling to allow your son to do as he wanted and become a Spectre himself, but you are not making decisions for his commanding officer_.”

And the holoscreen cuts back to the reporter, and it’s the lengthiest thing Solana’s ever heard the human say, but she had told Dad - she had told him that there was something there. Romance. If there isn’t - something damn close to it.

Maybe Shepard’s pissed as hell and ignoring traditional turian deathrites, but Solana sends off a message. And grins, because he totally owes her that bet.

* * *

From: Solana  
To: The Father  
Subject: You owe me 2,000 credits and I owe you turian grandbabies.  
Sent: 12:11, October 18th, 2187

_I’m okay. I hope Shepard didn't mess you up too badly._

_You probably deserved it if she did._

* * *

From: Dad  
To: Solana  
Subject: Not a chance on the former. : )  
Sent: 15:55, October 18th, 2187

_Thankfully, Shepard didn’t ruin my reputation. Too much._

_I apologise, Solana. It's not my place to decide whether Garrus is... well._

_We can't make a decision until we have proof either way._

 

_P.S: Your brother has a strange taste in women._

* * *

From: Solana  
To: The Father  
Subject: Are you using human written colloquialisms?  
Sent: 9:32, October 19th, 2187

_Thank you._

_I miss him._

_P.S: And you're saying you didn't outrage your parents by choosing mom?_

* * *

From: Dad  
To: Solana  
Subject: I’m attempting to keep up, daughter.  
Sent: 11:15, October 19th, 2187

 _P.S: Touché_.

* * *

She stays on the turian cruiser for a few more days, and then is passed onto another passing krogan battlecruiser. She leaves her salarians behind with regret, but it’s the fastest passage to the Citadel - and everyone knows that’s her destination, because it’s where her father and Shepard are: her best hope of finding her brother. The nurses message her almost constantly for a few hours, and then it peters down to something she can cope with. And actually respond to.

The krogan are surprisingly docile. They let her do what she wants, within reason, and she doesn’t leave her room except to speak to the turian doctor and eat. It works well for everyone involved.

From there, it’s an asari repair ship. None of them try to flirt with her - thank Spirits for that - but she’s only on there for a day. The repair ships are darting around the galaxy at the moment, fixing all they can and trying their best at what they can’t - like the Mass Relays. It sounds cold, but it gives them all something to focus on in the wake of such raw, aching tragedy.

With a passing thanks to the VI and pilot, Solana is dropped off at one of the public docks of the Citadel, messages her father, and settles in for a wait in the remarkably comfortable seats. Some things, she muses, never change, even with the end brunt of a galactic war.

A few C-Sec officers give her odd looks - she does have more than a passing semblance to her father, their current leader (and Garrus took after their mother, the scarred idiot) but no-one says anything. And, actually, it takes less than twenty minutes for aforementioned leader to arrive, out of breath, eyes alight and excited.

“Spirits,” he groans, and he looks so old and out of breath. He’s aged while she’s been away; creases deepened from where they were before and new scars to join the old ones. But then he straightens up, and looks so much like the father she has idolised forever - Solana can’t help it; she launches herself into his arms, pressing their foreheads together. Their subvocals are rumbling in harmony, and she laughs, and he laughs too.

“We came out of it alive,” she finds herself saying, and clutches him tighter.

“You’re damned right we did,” her Dad says strongly. He pushes her away; studies her for a long moment, and then pulls her in again, and she’s inevitably reminded of those who are missing, but there’s hope. There has to be hope.

* * *

Palaven - her home (and isn’t that funny, the curl of amusement tightening its way around her volatile heart) is almost destroyed. There isn’t much left of Earth, either, and they have lost so much. So much. Too much.

And when the burning of her eyes gets too much, and her body tenses, she hides in the dirtiest, scariest parts of the Citadel (which, admittedly, aren’t much), and wonders if this emptiness in her soul and heart and head was how Garrus felt after he ran away from a human’s death.

They’re bad turians. That’s what links them together, all these Vakarians. They are not part of the hierarchy - they’re outside it, watching in, and deciding that it’s better away from that structure. They’re rebels. They’re the defectors. And it _aches_. (Why couldn’t they actually be normal?)

Then, on the good days, she will listen to a recording of Garrus and her father talking on her father’s omnitool, and the way Garrus’ voice catches on ‘target practice’, and tries her best to grow up in a minute, and breathes deep. And keeps with this breathing thing, because she’s not sure what else can be done at all.

* * *

“ _Solana Vakarian has made a statement today, praising Commander Shepard for her efforts in finding her brother. The famous Garrus Vakarian, son of the current leader of C-Sec, has been missing for a year and a month now, and despite calls for Shepard to spend her time elsewhere, she is still on the hunt for her squadmates. The Commander has said she is not giving up until she has evidence proving their deaths or finding them alive - some stating that such an attempt is a lifelong endeavour…_ ”

* * *

Three months. She’s been on the Citadel three months when the frantic, cut-off holocall comes from her father, ordering her to get to Docking Bay D24 and fast. She does as she’s told, taking an elevator up to the docking bays, frantically trying to ping her father for him to call her back.

And then she stumbles out into the bay, and it’s pandemonium.

There are newsreaders and hovering cameras all over the place, and paparazzi brandishing big, long-lense cameras, and she shoves past them, pushing her way to the front of the crowd. Out in front of the C-Sec patrolled circle is Shepard, stood out alone, forever at the forefront, and then her father; some quarians she would describe as frantic if she could see their faces; humans, stood together in fits and starts; a group of asari. “What’s happening?” she stutters out, confused, frustrated by the flashes of the paparrazzi.

“Look,” is all her father says, and points out the bay window.

She grabs his arm, feeling her legs give out, her subharmonics rumbling in perfect accordance with her fathers’. “Spirits,” she mutters, heart thumping loudly in her chest. “Fucking - fucking Spirits.”

Because right there is the Normandy. Her hull is cracked, and her nose is badly dented - there’s deep gouges on her underbelly - but she’s in one piece, and Garrus might be alive, and there will be no more of this fucking waiting - she will know, one way or the other. She sobs, and he responds with a sob of his own.

Shepard turns to face them, and for the first time, Solana sees her in real life - and for the first time, Solana sees the faint flickering of hope in that demeanor; embers deep, burning bright. “We don’t know who’s alive or not. We couldn’t establish communication from here to the Normandy. But if they’re not who we think they are -  well, be grateful I do have a fucking big gun.” And Shepard's smile is forced but there is a hint of true emotion there - an inside joke, but with only half of the jokers present.

For the slightest of moments, Shepard looks more cracked than Solana feels, and she considers lending her an arm; stepping forward - an equal on equal terms, but the Commander turns, and unfailingly - unflinchingly - steps towards the bay door, omnitool being waved in a careful pattern, unlocking the seal.

It is only now that Solana realises the reverent silence is only broken by her subharmonics, and when she watches this back on the holoscreens, wonders if everyone will be able to hear hope, pressing against eardrums, vibrating audibly.

The pressurised door which leads to the walkway to the ship opens with a hiss, and there is a moment of compressed gas joining normal atoms, and then there are the silhouettes of people - and there is a yell of happiness and a tiny quarian darts forwards, a blur of purple, grabbing Shepard in a hug.

Then there are what seem like hundreds of them but probably aren’t more than thirty, all hurrying forwards, desperate to join the hug. Taller than them all - Garrus. He’s part of the crew. He’s alive. He still exists.

Her knees crumple this time, and she’s on the floor, sobbing with relief, heart pounding with joy, subharmonics screaming - but the families - they are ignored - ignored in favour of the growing celebration towards the woman who never gave up on them, for good reason, and they are joyous - joyous in existing; in being alive - of having a family of choice, perhaps the most important choice all of them have any made - the choice that kept them alive -

The screaming has reached a crescendo before the mass hug dissipates and then the brave, dangerous soldiers - heroes of the galaxy - lurch forwards to their collective families. Doctors are there within moments, and it takes seconds for DNA and brainwave patterns to be confirmed before they are released.

Garrus is one of the first, running, pressing them into hug, pulling Solana effortlessly off the floor, (and he is so tall in comparison to their father, and there is a fourth who is missing entirely and that hurts), and they are crying as best as turians can. Maybe they’re all bad turians, but biology doesn’t fail them now.

And it’s moments of rocking, of clutching at hands, and tracing the scars added to his face from the last time they saw him; the mangled clan marking. She only finds she misses the sniper visor after it isn’t there, but doesn’t miss it as much as she missed him. Spirits. They were right. Her nurses were right. He’s alive. He’s alive and he’s real.

When Garrus has been inspected enough, a good twenty minutes later, he steps back a little, and grins, and she can’t help but grin grin grin back. “You’re alive.” (Her subharmonics are cracking - too much emotion - whatever, whatever, she couldn’t care less.)

Against all odds, Garrus laughs. “Of course I am,” he vows. “I made a promise.”

And then they talk. “Mom?” he asks.

She shakes her head. She had been there at their mother’s last moments, and watched, and her mother hadn’t even been awake. Mom hadn't fought; her last act had been a soft exhale. God - how could she have forgotten? But she had.

“How did you get the extra scars?” their father asks, hand leaning in as though he is to touch them before changing his mind.

“We crash landed,” Garrus explains, and there is a sort of twist to his smile there.

And then there is more hugging - more quiet exhalations, as the Vakarians are accustomed to - ‘I love you’; ‘I missed you’; ‘I wish I could have been there for mom’. They are not a demonstrative family. They are bad turians. It is the most important thing Solana knows.

When he steps away, the quarian is back (she is so small in comparison to all of them; small and lithe, even in her suit) and grabs Garrus by the hand. “Garrus - I have been telling them about you, so you should meet my childhood shipmates!” she exclaims, accent marred by excitement, and drags him away - and what can they do but follow?

And for the first time in her life, Solana is introduced to quarians, away from Rannoch, and talks to them about engineering and machines - and asari; soft spoken, the best they could find for Liara T’Soni; and humans, funny water that Garrus explains is called tears coming from their eyes, and watches in fascination, voice hurting, as Garrus talks to his people, and treats every single one as though they are important (because they are). Not everyone came back alive. Of course they are.

“Were you Captain?” her father asks, and Garrus shrugs modestly. “Of a sort,” he responds, and that’s probably the only answer they’re going to get.

Finally, the one she’s been waiting for (not that she’ll admit it for love nor money). They get to Shepard. Solana grabs her father; hangs back, part of the crowd now, watching in interest. She’s not letting her father’s bias taint this. Not now; not ever. The crowd is murmuring but has quietened down again. They are alive, and they are themselves, and this is the reunion they have been waiting for.

Shepard thanks a human couple whose son didn’t come home, and then her eyes flicker up; meet Garrus’, and her smile turns so broad. Happiness, there and real, alight and real and true in her soul.

And - and - what? Garrus steps back, heels together, and salutes. “Commander.”

“Chief Gunnery Officer,” she greets, and there is amusement laced in that tone, and she’s stood so comfortably - as though the whole of the galaxy isn’t watching and taking bets. “You can stand down, Garrus,” she laughs, and he does, and then she throws herself at him, and his arms are open, and they hug for what seems like hours, islands in an ocean of reunion. The crowd is shouting again, and when Solana glances over at her father, he is smiling.

And then Shepard releases him, smiling so wobbly and wide and they haven’t stepped back from each other - not an inch. Her (tiny, delicate, fleshy, human) fingers come up, tracing the new myriad of scars layering the side of his face. “You know,” she says casually, “I know some women like scars.”

Garrus laughs and laughs, amusement flickering in his subharmonics like fireworks. “They’re not krogan, surprisingly,” he adds, clearly teasing with the angle of his mandibles.

“I can think of one non-krogan who loves scars on a certain turian,” Shepard responds, mouth pulled up in a smirk, and Garrus leans back, head tilting in confusion before she leans up and kisses him on the nose, fingers tracing his scars, and then kisses the scars, and then kisses his lips, and then presses her forehead to his.

Garrus fumbles in confusion for a second, and then there is pure and utter contentment.

Both of them are serene.

* * *

* * *

* * *

When they get back to the Vakarian apartment (as Shepard doesn’t really have one of her own to speak of - she has been running on empty for what feels like decades), and both of them change out of armour into soft sleeping clothes, Garrus on the wrong side of ‘thin’ - it is then, and only after both Solana and Captain Vakarian have left them alone in the spare room, does Shepard allow herself to cry.

She sobs for what she thinks may be the first time in front of Garrus, and he freezes up at first, but then cradles her, hands stroking her back, allowing her to clutch his shirt. “I thought you were dead,” she manages, voice thick and aching. “I thought you were all dead. I love you, and I thought you were dead.”

“Never.” he hisses. “I promise.” And then there is a pause, and then an even quieter: “I love you too.”

When he is wrapped around her, warm and comfortable, and sleepily presses a human kiss to the side of her head does she finally fall asleep.

* * *

She wakes up to half-darkness, and Garrus breathing softly. Her gun is on the sidetable. Truthfully, in all likeliness, neither of them will ever be too far from a gun ever again. They gave up too much to be civilians.

Shepard casts that out of her mind, however, because for the moment is it quiet and safe, and Garrus has new scars, and she isn’t sure there’s a heart under all the scar tissue in her chest (and they will both heal, and it will take a long time, but he promised. They have forever.)

Aspirations. Beyond surviving long enough to consider retirement, she has them.

Garrus is better than any balloon. She'll tell him that when he wakes up. He'll laugh, and she'll smile, and Solana will stare when they go padding out and neither of them will mind a bit.

And - she smiles. (It's a beginning.)


End file.
